I’ve known a few (rare)
humble men in my time.
Dead now. They wouldn’t want
their names mentioned.
Humility is a lost and fabled hamlet
somewhere up in the mountains
no roads lead to; rising silently,
gradually as the sun –
dawning upon neglect, the absence of focus.
Not a battleground nor a way of self regard
but, regarding the self not at all
or, offhandedly – an afterthought,
an offshoot, treated underfoot as maybe
a kid brother; a cumbersome substitute, the self –
the equipment necessarily issued, an essential
nuisance like the plaster cast on a broken leg,
to be discarded one day when wholeness returns.
Toward the humble, there’s a natural flowing,
their emptiness offering effortlessly
refuge, quietude, solace.
They exist so minimally, a sense of expansiveness
is engendered in all those fatefully drawn near.
O child of God, humility arrives by an evolutionary processwhich cannot be rushed, provoked or overrode.